himself on a revolving stool, and looked up at the waiter who came
stolidly forward from the big, round-bellied stove at the rear.

"Hello, George!"

The restauranteur nodded.

"Hello!"

"My gosh! What a night!"

"Pretty cold, ain't it?"

"Cold?" Spike Walters looked up antagonistically. "Say, you don't know
what cold means. I'd rather have your job to-night than a million
dollars. Only if I had a million dollars I'd buy twenty stoves, set 'em
in a circle, build a big fire in each one, sit in the middle, and tell
winter to go to thunder--that's what I'd do. Now, George, hustle and lay
me out a cup of coffee, hot--get that?--and a couple of them greasy
doughnuts of yourn."

The coffee and doughnuts were duly produced, and the stolid Athenian
retired to the torrid zone of his stove. Spike bravely tried one of the
doughnuts and gave it up as a bad job, but he quaffed the coffee with an
eagerness which burned his throat and imparted a pleasing sensation of
inward warmth. Then he stretched luxuriously and lighted a cigarette.

He glanced through the long-unwashed window of the White Star
Cafe--"Ladies and gents welcome," it announced--and shuddered at the
prospect of again braving the elements. Across the street his